224
PARTISAN REVIEW
It
typed a mixture of characters, three layers thick, and I typed
my customer number, my operator's number and my passwotd.
It
typed:
WELCOME TO WORD/ ONE
It
typed my name, the time of day, the date, and some numbers
noting what space of the computer tape I was using.
It
asked me
my usage distribution code.
Since I do not want my writing available to any other
operator, I pushed the return button, leaving the distribution
information blank. The computer then reminded me of the
width of my margin, the page depth I was using and my tab
settings. I was ready to start. But before I could, it typed:
BUT DON'T YOU REMEMBER?
I looked at the line. There had been trouble with the computer a
couple of times, and a weird jumble of unreadable letters had
been printed out. But I had never seen an understandable
sentence that I had not entered printed before. Had I written
those words before I signed off the day before? Was it somehow
left
in temporary storage? I thought about it a minute, without
coming up with any logical answer, then I started to type.
THE GREEN DRESS
"Every day," he said, "I have seen you standing above me. In
the middle of a speech or a business meeting, there you are,
your bare legs on either side of my face.
If
I am in the middle
of a sentence, what can I do but stop? There hasn't been a day
when I have not seen you like that. It is like .the image of
sinking, I told you about, the dream I used to have, a day–
dream I still have, at times. The sinking is frightening and
enticing. I have to see you like that again, white-skinned,
gigantic, above me."
Though I usually type a whole chapter before I ask the terminal
to print it back for me, the paragraph did not seem right, so I
pushed pn. The terminal printed the paragraph, numbering
each line. I had typed "Teh" instead of "The" and had skipped
